He stood her up.
His hands stayed on her shoulders—warm palms curved over the delicate slope of bone, fingers splayed wide enough to span the full width of her frame. The pressure was steady, not bruising, but undeniable: the kind of hold that said I have you, I'm not letting go, you don't have to fight anymore.
He guided her off the desk slowly, thumbs brushing the sensitive hollows beneath her collarbones as he eased her down. He turned her slowly while he got behind her back.
Every inch of her aware of him—the heat radiating from his chest against her back, the faint tremor of restraint in his grip, the way his breath stirred the fine hairs at her nape.
Dravenna felt it all.
The solid wall of his torso behind her—broad, unyielding, the faint rise and fall of his breathing pressing rhythmically against her spine. The subtle flex of his forearms as he controlled her descent—muscles shifting under his sleeves, a quiet promise of strength he wasn't using, not yet.
